Sparkle

Carrie Bradshaw mentioned the "sparkle" in one of the Sex and the City movies, someone wrote a whole book about it, and we have lost it. Anyway, "life is like a washing machine" so...make sure you have a good plumber on stand-by? Or something to that effect. It's late and my brain is mashed. I'll leave you with this excerpt of relevance to how i'm feeling right now from a book I read once:

There was an unsettling feeling in her stomach. Not just the pit of her stomach like if she was upset or ashamed. But a stirring in the whole of her stomach, unsettling her, because she sensed what was coming.
"In light of the situation," she found herself saying, "I think we should--"
"No." He interrupted abruptly. "Take a break? No. Split up? No. I'm not having that."
Exasperation made her rolls her eyes.
"It's not just your decision, Stace."
"It's not just yours either." She countered. "And besides," she added to her argument, "when I start messing you around THEN you can come at me with that." She exhaled the stirring tension in her stomach. "I am sick to death of how you're treating me - I'm tired of the whiplash of changing emotions that you cause me."
Silence.
What was she expecting exactly? A better expectation for his questionable actions? An apology?
She exhaled calmly again.
"I don't know what you want me to say..."
She offered him a wan smile, her usually unwavering sympathy disappearing into thin air, and then she nodded slowly.
"When it comes to me, you never do."
He opened his mouth to protest.
He's socially awkward. He's not a good communicator. He's unable to think up conversions. He's inept at speaking his own thoughts.
"Yet when it comes to anybody else, you become a poet with your ideas and your music and your stories..."
By the end of every day, the only thing he had left for her was a simple goodnight when all she wanted was to know about his day.
"Stace..."
"Stop." She held her breath for exactly ten seconds, she counted in her head.
That's when she walked away. She could no longer deal with the stress of this conversation.
Or if she was quite honest with herself, she was fed up of having the same conversation over and over again. The awful thing about it was that she knew when she woke up the following morning things will resume their normality.
Life is like a washing machine, it has plenty of different settings, but she was pretty sure hers was faulty and was stuck on a repeat spin cycle.

My day today:


Period: WAKE UP, ASSHOLE, YOU GOT CRAMPS.

Period: How bout an entire chocolate cake for breakfast?

Period: How's that back pain? Feeling better? Let's fix that.

Period: Find a cookie as big as a house and eat it.

Period: Where's your Tic Tac box filled with paracetamol?

Period: Got things to do? Don't care. Sleep.

Period: For dinner you're eating an entire 12 pack bag of crisps.

Period: Breeze blows by. Instantly horny.

Period: You didn't like those brand new pair of panties, right?

Period: Yell at a puppy.

10 Honest Thoughts On Being Loved By A Skinny Boy

1.

I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says ‘No, you are beautiful.’
I wonder why I cannot be both.
He kisses me
hard.

2.

My college theater professor once told me
that despite my talent,
I would never be cast as a romantic lead.
We do plays that involve singing animals
and children with the ability to fly,
but apparently no one
has enough willing suspension of disbelief
to go with anyone loving a fat girl.
I daydream regularly
about fucking my boyfriend vigorously on his front lawn.

3.

On the mornings I do not feel pretty,
while he is still asleep,
I sit on the floor and check the pockets of his skinny jeans for motive,
for a punchline,
for other girls’ phone numbers.

4.

When we hold hands in public,
I wonder if he notices the looks —
like he is handling a parade balloon on a crowded sidewalk;
if he notices that my hands are now made of rope.

5.
Dear Cosmo: Fuck you.
I will not take sex tips from you
on how to please a man you think I do not deserve.

6.

He tells me he loves me with the lights on.

7.

I can cup his hip bone in my hand,
feel his ribs without pressing very hard at all.
He does not believe me when I tell him he is beautiful.
Sometimes I fear the day he does will be the day he leaves.

8.

The cute hipster girl at the coffee shop
assumes we are just friends
and flirts over the counter.
I spend the next two weeks
mentally replacing myself with her
in all of our photographs.
When I admit this to him
we spend the evening taking new photos together.
He will not let me delete a single one of them.

9.

The phrase “Big girls need love too” can die in a fire.
Fucking me does not require an asterisk.
Loving me is not a fetish.
Finding me beautiful is not a novelty.
I am not a fucking novelty.

10.

I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says, ‘No. You are so much more’,
and kisses me
hard.

— by Rachel Wiley

Instead of sleeping, i'm sharing poems that I find interesting with no-one in particular  

"Ten honest thoughts on being loved by a skinny boy" has got to be one of the most gutsiest pieces of literature I have ever read. It's almost Post Secrets-y. Hats off to Miss Wiley for publishing this to the world.

My favourite part of this poem is: "Fucking me does not require an asterisk, loving me is not a fetish, finding me beautiful is a novelty."

The Insomniac's Club

Good evening (nearly midnight) everyone. Funny how things work out - I was up all night last night, tossing and turning. Welcome to the Insomniacs Club.

The Insomniac's Club

Insomnia sauntered nonchalantly into my bedroom, fully aware that the click-clacking her four-inch stilettos made as they struck my hardwood floors was sufficient to wake me. Her utter lack of consideration wasn’t due to the fact that she knew I was already wide awake; she just didn’t give a shit.

It was three o’clock in the morning.

She made herself cozy at the foot of my four poster stainless steel canopy bed, and sparked up a Lucky Strike. In the moonlight I couldn’t tell if the gossamer frock that clung for dear life to her every curve was maroon or scarlet. What I could discern was: it had spaghetti strings, no back, and beacoup décolletage. I asked her politely to leave; she flipped me the finger.

“Is that how it’s gonna be?” I asked, bleary eyed.

READ MORE HERE: http://www.jackfrombkln.com/the-insomniacs-club/

It's just after 1am, i'm listening to Dear Juliet, and Carmen has finally dropped off to sleep, probably worn out after asking me a million and one questions about random things in my bedroom - gotta love kids.

I can't sleep, and Chris is ill and sleeping so I can't talk to him (I miss him loads); Jase is also not answering his mobile, but I think he's working, ooops; so i'm on MSN (not that I go on that often these days) with Em, we're trading music 'cause she's awesome like that.

I will eventually try and get some sleep...at sometime around 3am, that's probably when i'll get tired, I hope. For now, it's cup of tea time.

Night night, world.

P.S. This house is a fucking prison on planet bullshit in the galaxy of this sucks camel dick.

Can't sleep.

Need to go for a very long walk to think about everything, to try and sort things out, clear my head.